Monday, January 21, 2013

In my defense...(yes, we got a puppy)

His name is Buster.

Buster Posey Nunn

Or, as Brodie calls him, “Mr. Posey.”

He weighs 2.4 pounds right now and will most likely max out at 7 or 8. He's a Chorkie. That's half Chihuahua and half Yorkie.

Yes. I know I’m pregnant.
Yes. I know that puppies, especially small ones, are a lot of work.
No. I’m not crazy or ‘out of my damn mind’.

The other day, while I was doing dishes and straightening up the house, do you want to know where Buster was?

He was in the office, asleep in an old Pack N’ Play, not bothering anyone. He didn’t have to have a bottle first or be rocked to sleep. I didn’t have to coax him into taking a nap by promising candy when he woke up. There were no tears or tantrums or begging or pleading. There was no guilt when I let him whine for nearly 10 minutes before he fell asleep.

Want to know why?

Because he’s a dog.

In June, I’m having another baby. A real baby. One who will cry and need a bottle and need rocking. One who will need constant attention and love and food and diapers and singing and playing and clothes and shoes and socks and…

Yet, no one asked me if I was out of my mind when I announced my pregnancy.

You know what I can’t do with a baby? Stick it in a Pack N’ Play for an hour and a half while I clean. Or nap. Or eat dinner. Or go to Kohl’s by myself.

You know what else I can’t do with a baby? Put it in the back yard all afternoon with a bowl of food and a bowl of water and know that it will be perfectly fine when I get home from work or errands. Buster will be excited to see me after a long day of playing in the grass and peeing on trees. He will be delighted to have attention from the boys and fall asleep in my lap while I sit in the recliner and watch Grey’s Anatomy and Scandal.

And no one will call CPS.  

Yet, no one asked if I had time for a baby.

Yes. I know puppies have to be potty trained. You know who else has to be potty trained?


We’ve been potty training Brodie for about two weeks now. We have good days and we have bad days. We have days where he wears the same clothes all day long and days where we run out of clean underwear. The other day, he asked if he could go potty on the side of the house. I said yes, of course, because one of the major perks of raising boys is that they can pee just about anywhere. After about a minute and a half, I realize that Brodie is taking a little too long going pee. Do you want to know why? Because he was actually going poop.

That’s right. My two and a half year old took a poop on the side of the house, while standing up, and was super proud of himself.

It. Was. Awesome.

I had to spend about 5 minutes explaining to him that while he can pee in the grass, pooping is actually unacceptable.

Potty training is potty training, people.  

I tell Brodie about 8 times a day to stop playing with his penis. You know who I don’t have to say that to?


In a few months, I can insure that Buster doesn’t knock up the slutty neighbor girl down the street. Trying to teach my sons that same lesson is going to be a lot more work and require more than 75 bucks and a quick trip to the vet.

Yet, if baby number three is, in fact, a boy, I haven’t heard one concern about my ability to accomplish teaching said lesson.

It’s a dog, guys.

I got this.

My kids wanted a dog. Jeremy and I wanted a dog. When you are getting ready to be a family of five, I figure there are two things you need: A table big enough to fit everyone and a dog.

Besides, look at this face. We couldn’t say no!

Happy Monday, Friends.
go. do. be.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

Happy Sunday

I love Sundays.

Sundays have a different feel about them, don’t they? At my house Sundays start with a cup of coffee, a couple of hungry kids and a dog who needs attention. 

It’s not really that much different from any other day of the week except on Sundays, we have nothing else to do but take an extra long time to make breakfast and spend with the puppy. I love the kind of morning where no one is in a hurry about anything. I love sipping coffee with my husband and making and eating too many pancakes. I love staying in our pajamas until 2 in the afternoon and then only changing into sweats and sweatshirts so we can go outside and watch the kids ride their bikes. Sweats and pajamas are basically the same thing but the neighbors don’t look at us weird.

I love spending time with my kids and spending time with my husband and watching my husband spend time with my kids.

For years, I have worked on Sundays. Recently, though, my boss has decided to be extra generous and give me most Sundays off. It’s not that she doesn’t need me on Sundays, it’s that she’s realized that 5 hours into an 8 hour shift I start to ‘waddle,’ as she so affectionately calls it, and she’s decided I’d be better off at home.

I didn’t argue with her decision.

We try not to make plans on Sundays. Plans make me feel pressure and Sunday is not supposed to feel like pressure. We do more play it by ear on Sundays and it seems to work out better that way. A couple of Sundays ago we spent the day in the mountains shooting guns. It was a little cold and a little wet. It didn’t matter much, though. We ended up having a great time. And the look on this kid’s face after he shot my gun for the first time? 


Last Sunday we ended up at the family restaurant down the street for dinner. I always enjoy taking my kids to eat at restaurants. We don’t do it very often. I enjoy the opportunity to teach them how to behave in a restaurant. Because I wait on people for a living, and have done so for so many years, I’m always happy when we have a successful trip out to dinner, respectable mess, table manners, tic-tac-toe and all. It’s important to me that my kids learn how to behave in restaurants. I don’t want to be responsible for raising ‘those kids.’ The ones my co-workers and I will play rock-paper-scissors to get out of waiting on. Jeremy and I have received compliments in restaurants on the way our kids behave. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy that feeling.

This Sunday, we’re having dinner at home. We recently bought a dining room table that seats six. We have been eating on the same dining room table Jeremy and I bought in 2001 when we rented our first apartment. It only had four chairs and it was very small. We’ve wanted a new one for a while but it wasn’t until I found out I was pregnant with baby number 3 that it became a priority. It suddenly became very important to have enough chairs for our entire family. I saw an episode of The Middle once where Frankie decides her family is going to start having dinner at the table every night. When they sit down for the first time, the kids are convinced that the TV is broken because they never sit down to eat at the table. When I say never, I mean never. Frankie’s youngest son, Brick (One of the most brilliant characters on television) doesn’t even have a chair. He’s in elementary school. I remember laughing at this episode hysterically. It was also the first thing that came to mind when I found out I was pregnant: That I was going to be Frankie Heck in real life and that I had to make sure my ‘Brick’ had a chair before he/she was born. I have a thing about eating at the table. Whether it comes from the oven or a bucket, my fancy Deep Covered Baker from Pampered Chef or a wrapper from Taco Bell, I like eating at the table. I think it’s important. I think it’s enjoyable. I think it’s when we get our best family conversations in. I think it’s the reason we get compliments on how our children behave in restaurants. We don’t get to do it as often as I’d like so we try to take advantage when we can. When we’re all home on the weekends we double up and have breakfast together, too. Tonight, when we sit down for dinner, I’m going to put all of the food in the middle of the table. It’s probably not necessary but I’ve never had a table big enough to do that before now and I’m excited about teaching lessons in, “Can you please pass the…” 

And when that kind of dinner happens on a Sunday? Well, it’s sort of like a bonus prize, isn’t it?

Until it’s time for dinner, though, we’re spending our Sunday like this. 

I love Sundays.

Happy Sunday, friends.
go. do. be.